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I remember that fateful day in May 1960 when the world was locked within the icy confines of the Cold War. My mission started according to plan as my U2 spy plane left the runway and climbed to 60,000 feet ready to penetrate enemy air space ready to take a sequence of photographs of numerous Russian military installations. I had been briefed that the Russians had a new type of experimental anti-aircraft missile that could reach the height of our American spy planes but none had been spotted during the recent, daily missions over Russia. I was going to be the guinea pig of this new technology. As I flew over Ekaterinburg I spared a thought for the former Tsar and his family who were murdered within the confines of Impatiev House but my historical flight of fancy was disturbed by a red flashing light on my instrument panel.
The buzzer alerted me to an incoming flying object. I searched the vacant airspace beneath me to locate the incoming MIG jet but I could not detect the familiar outline of a silver plane. I hit the panel to correct the fault and then my whole world erupted into pieces of flying metal, Perspex and engine. I had been hit. My U2 plane fell apart and my seat with ejection parachute fell as a stone towards the earth with the other debris. I said a few prayers to prepare myself for my exit from this world. After this I remember very little and all became dark.
"Are you OK?" I heard a voice, that of an angel. I moved my fingers feeling intense pleasure that I was not dead. "You are an American pilot?" "Er, yes," I replied still unable to focus on the mystery voice. "Allow me to remove you from your chair. I must take you to a place of safety before the guards find you." I did not resist as strong hands removed me from my chariot of doom and dragged me into adjacent undergrowth. The man removed my flying helmet and felt my limbs for signs of damage. My whole body ached from the trauma. I caught my first glimpse of my saviour. He was about 5 foot 8 and in his late 50’s. He had thick silver hair and piercing blue eyes and his face seemed weathered with age and the rigours of outdoor life. He knew I was looking at him but he did not seem to mind. "My name is Serge Romanevich. I live not far from here. It is best that I do not know your name if that is OK with you." "Sure. I’m just glad to be alive." Serge pulled me to my feet and hid my pilot’s seat in the undergrowth. He removed my flying suit and disposed of it in a similar way. His coat was thrown around me to protect my modesty and he led me away from the crash scene into the depths of the surrounding woods. We seemed to walk for miles and we spoke of many things to pass the time. Eventually we came to a clearing within the dense forest and a small wooden dwelling revealed itself to me. The small house was charming and a small plume of white smoke emerged from the stone chimney. It so reminded me of Vermont in the winter that I felt quite at home. We went inside and he sat me on a wooden chair by the fire. It was only at this moment that I felt my skin was on fire and I looked at my body, which had, been cooked real good. I had little time to examine my wounds before Serge placed a liquid compound over the third degree burns to my arms and legs. "This will cool your burns and make them better," he offered in a tranquil voice. I let him apply the cooling poultice and noticed that his face bore the unmistakable marks of former burns. Even his hands were scared from a former accident. "It seems to me that you know a lot about burns and their treatment," I offered. "Yes. You can see my scars but the worst scars are inside. Those that you cannot see!" I wanted to ask him more but felt tired and soon fell asleep.
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© 2003 Steven Longman-Marshall - all rights reserved. 21st June 2003.
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